Like a Prayer

Chapter 5

I'm steeling myself to go into my overly-friendly neighborhood café — I have until midnight New York time to finish writing an article for "Literature, Translated" and it's not happening without some serious caffeine — when I catch sight of Father Patrick up the street ahead of me and I suddenly realize that if anything can put the baristas in their place, it's the presence of a priest.

I haven't seen him much since he got back from his weekend with the Aeronautica Militare, and when I have he's seemed overly pensive and distracted, as if he's got the weight of heaven and earth on his shoulders. I'm not his confidante but I have a good chance of distracting him from his worries so I hurry to catch up to him. "So they do let you out of the Vatican!"

He turns, startled, and I catch the full brunt of his preoccupied stare. Even looking adorable in his saturno he's impossibly stern, his eyes Atlantic Ocean-gray just like when he's celebrating mass or taking me to task for my confessions. Whatever he's thinking about, it takes him a few moments to come back to the present.

"They do, on occasion," he concedes, managing a small smile. "How are you, Miri?"

"Fine, Father." Then I say as cheerfully as I can, "Are you heading back? Do you want to grab a cup of coffee with me on the way?"

"That sounds fine."

Sure enough, when he holds the café door open for me I hear the beginning of a drawn-out wolf whistle. But when I step aside for Father Patrick to enter and the whistle chokes off abruptly, I almost laugh out loud.

Silvio and Mauro, awestruck, immediately abandon a middle-aged businessman, a young couple, and a grandmotherly woman waiting to be served and come out from behind the counter to greet Father Patrick, who shakes their hands before they do something awkward like try to kiss his ring. They fumble with their English until he speaks Italian and then they're chatting happily with him and I am, amazingly, forgotten.

I glance around the café and see Lorenza at her usual table. She's an effortlessly beautiful woman with short dark hair and humorous dark eyes behind glasses that would be scholarly on anyone else but on her are just plain sexy. We've traded more than our share of commiserating looks whenever the baristas hover around one or the other of us, but right now behind Father Patrick's back she's dropping her jaw and shaking her hand at the wrist with her fingers spread, the universal sign for "Damn, he's hot!"

I grin in agreement and start to sit down, but then I realize that the abandoned customers are starting to cluster around Father Patrick and I quickly rescue him and bring him to Lorenza's table, seating him between us to protect him from any unwanted attention. I manage to introduce the two of them before Mauro bustles over to actually take Father Patrick's order instead of making him order at the counter, and he's gracious enough to take our orders, too, respectfully calling me and Lorenza "signorina" instead of the usual "bambina." I could get used to this.

Father Patrick asks Lorenza how she and I met and she closes her notebook and caps her pen, giving him all her attention as she explains that I introduced myself when I saw she was reading Charles Dickens. She smiles and leans towards him as she looks deep into his eyes and — wait! She's flirting with him! With my priest! And he doesn't seem to be taking it at all amiss. He gives her that million-watt smile that still makes me feel a little swoon-y, his voice dropping conspiratorially as he asks if she's read A Tale of Two Cities, his eyes locked with hers.

Mauro brings our drinks and a plate of biscotti, ostentatiously telling us it's on the house, before I can go all green-eyed monster on poor Lorenza. What, she's not supposed to find Father Patrick attractive? She can't interact with him as an adult woman? She has three cardinals watching her every —?

Oh, heck. I refuse to look around. If I don't see them, then they aren't there.

I resolutely take a sip of my macchiato, reminding myself of the point of all this. After all, it doesn't really matter if it's me or Lorenza distracting Father Patrick from his troubles, right? I let her have her intimate moment with the camerlengo and eat a cookie, waiting for a chance to join the conversation as a grown-up.

Which doesn't take long, actually, as Lorenza smiles at me and turns the talk to Bleak House, the book we'd bonded over. So this isn't a competition; she's not trying to take him away from me. She's being a friend. An insanely gorgeous friend who's freely signaling her attraction to Father Patrick — but a friend nonetheless.

When Silvio and Mauro finally let poor Giulio out from the behind the counter and he promptly drags Father Patrick to the bakery case to pick out which pastries he'd like to take home, Lorenza mimes a faint. She immediately revives and grabs my hand. "We're going to church tomorrow," she tells me in a low voice. I nod agreement. "We're going every single day of the — "

"The other priests at St. Peter's are a lot older than Father Patrick."

"What a pity! I tell you, Miri, if more priests were like him I'd be in church all day and all night." She gives me a significant look and I can't help a giggle. "Oh! What a man!" she exclaims under her breath.

Father Patrick returns with a white box tied with string and Silvio, who's asking him when he'll be celebrating mass next, and then Silvio turns to me and says solemnly, "Signorina, perhaps on that day you would like to go with me to hear Padre Patricio, yes?"

I level a look at him, impressed. "That has to be the best pick-up line I've heard from you since I moved here." He manages to look both pious and smug. I gather Lorenza into my glance and she shrugs agreement; we were going to go anyway. "We'll meet you there." I suspect Mauro and Giulio will meet us there, too.

And who's got the "I'm Cupid, and I done good" look on his face? Yes. The camerlengo.

Father Patrick obligingly hauls the box in front of my apartment door inside and peeks over my shoulder, curious, as I open it. "Perhaps you should apply for an import license," he opines as I hand him the stack of movies at the very top. "'Young and Dangerous'!" he exclaims, and starts to turn it over to read the bad English translation of the movie summary on the back but then he sees the movies underneath. "'My Neighbor Totoro'?"

"Totoro is a mythical forest creature that two little girls meet. It's a Japanese animated movie," I explain, not sure what Mom was thinking when she threw it into the box.

Father Patrick looks a bit mystified at that. "I've seen this one," indicating "Miracle on 34th Street." "It's the one where an old man thinks he's Kris Kringle?"

"Right. Maureen O'Hara is the mom and Natalie Wood is her daughter. And 'The Aristocats' — "

He frowns slightly, trying to remember. "There are those Siamese cats…?"

"No, that's 'Lady and the Tramp.' In 'The Aristocats' Eva Gabor is Duchess, the mom cat, and she and her three kittens, Toulouse, Marie, and Berlioz — "

" — run into O'Malley the Alley Cat!" he says with sudden remembrance.

"Exactly!" So did Dad tell Mom that I was trying to help Father Patrick remember his childhood in Ireland? Did Mom think that if she sent movies Father Patrick watched as a kid, it might jog his other memories? Don't they think I can do it on my own?

I unearth a box of Cap'n Crunch. Nope. Clearly, they're under no illusions about how well I can bake.

Ever since the French toast incident Carolyn's been a big believer in food nostalgia and I'm sure she's responsible for the cereal. Leo's contribution is music — a cd with no play list, only labeled in his distinctive printing, "Camerlengo Mix."

"I would very much like to hear that, Miri."

"So would I!"

I put the Camerlengo Mix in the cd player and we try to figure out what we're listening to. I recognize the talk box right away and tell Father Patrick, "It's an American group called Bon Jovi," which clearly means nothing to him but we continue to listen, uncertain what Bon Jovi, or Tommy on the dock and Gina in a diner, have to do with the camerlengo. And then I groan. "Leo! You did not —" I catch Father Patrick's glance and hold up a finger. "Wait for it, Father."

And then the chorus comes around, and to emphasize the title of the song that Leo thinks the camerlengo needs to hear I sing — well, the song isn't so much sung as yelled in a stadium, so I do what needs to be done.

"OHHHH, we're halfway there! Ohhhh-OH, livin' on a prayer! Take my hand — " I hold out my hand to him, which he's too stunned to take. "— we'll make it I swear! Ohhhh-OH, livin' on a prayer!"

His eyes are bright as the Pacific Ocean in sunlight as he looks at me, disbelieving, and bursts into laughter. I scrounge up a pen and a fish-shaped notepad to jot down titles and bands, and explain to Father Patrick about rock music at sporting events.

The next song starts with an acoustic guitar. "Leo, you're killing me," I mutter as the mournful recorders kick in. Father Patrick looks a question at me. "'Stairway to Heaven,'" I explain as I scribble on the notepad, and then I shoot him the look right back. "You've never heard Led Zeppelin before?" He shakes his head. "You've missed out on a lot, Father."

"What is the song about?"

I make a face. "You should have read some of the essays I got when I taught poetry and let my students write about the lyrics."

He grins at me. "Terribly profound, are they?"

"They liked to think so. I'd sing you the chorus if it had one. It just kind of goes on and on."

We go back to unpacking the box and I mentally separate the food into what's supposed to trigger Father Patrick's childhood memories and what's supposed to stave off my incipient homesickness. Animal-shaped cookies in a little box with a string handle — Father Patrick. Panko crumbs and tonkatsu sauce — me. Two pink-coconut-covered mounds of chocolate cake filled with cream — Father Patrick. Taco shells — ooh! Thanks, Dad!

"You've got to come over for Taco Tuesday, Father!" At his blank look I amend, "It doesn't have to be Tuesday, it can be any night, really, it's just that Tuesdays tend to be a slow restaurant night so they sell tacos for a buck each to get people to eat out. But seriously, I'll make tacos. Bring your dad."

He looks thoughtful. "If my father comes over, the Swiss Guard must accompany him, too."

Oh, for — did I just invite the Pope over for tacos? Yes. Yes, I did. "How many Swiss Guards?" I ask, hoping I sound unconcerned and wondering how many people can fit on my sofa if they're relatively skinny.

His grin is sudden, delighted. "You should see the expression on your face!" he teases, and I feel my cheeks go hot. Ha ha, Mr. Camerlengo. Good one. And then I find a nicely-wrapped package tied with ribbon about the size of a large shoebox with his name on it.

He turns it over and around as if it's the wrapping that's important. "But — I don't understand," he finally says. "Why —?"

I shrug, trying not to die of curiosity. "They probably thought it was unfair that everything's always for me and wanted you to have something to open, too."

"It's not as if it's my birthday, or that they know me."

"You're my friend, Father. That's plenty for them."

"It's very generous of them, Miri."

"Well, I'd open it first before I decided that."

He grins at that, and then perversely keeps helping me unpack. Darn his self-restraint.

It's when we cart the food into the kitchen that another song (finally) starts and I say, "Remember when Jane Eyre ran away from Rochester, and Diana and Mary and St. John Rivers took her in, and Diana and Mary were really sweet but St. John was a scary religious zealot and kind of dangerous?"

Annie Lennox snarls, "Missionary Man, he's got God on his side, he's got the saints and apostles rising up from behind" and Father Patrick asks, "This is a song about St. John Rivers?"

"Well, no. The lead singer said it had something to do with dating a Hare Krishna. But when I hear this song I think of St. John Rivers."

"Ah." He gives me a judicious "that makes sense — not" nod, and then visibly decides to change topics. "So…'Living on a Prayer,' 'Stairway to Heaven,' and — " he consults the notepad, "'Missionary Man.' Songs with…religious words in the title?"

"And probably 'Earth Angel' is going to show up at some point, too."

But the next song is by Dusty Springfield and I have to hand it to my little brother, he's digging deep in the Stannis CD collection. I dutifully sing the chorus. "The only one who could ever reach me was the son of a preacher man. The only boy who could ever teach me was the son of a preacher man."

Father Patrick looks up from putting the tea kettle on to boil. "The son of a preacher man?"

I decide to get my own back at him and sing, "You're so vain, I bet you think this song is about you." He snorts a laugh and gives me an "okay, we're even" look. He's so adorable I can barely stand it.

He wants to share his pastries from the café but I persuade him to save them for later and put out the snacks Carolyn sent; after all, he's used to weird food when he's with me, and since he didn't react to seeing them, he'll have to taste them to see if they have any effect.

We make tea to "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey and move into the living room to —

"Aretha!" I exclaim, and then explain, "Mom's Aretha Franklin and the rest of us sing backup. Imagine Dad on my right and Carolyn and Leo on my left. Prayer for yoooooou!" As Aretha sings the verse I do a little step-and-snap, waiting to come in on "…wear now! Prayer for you! Forever, and ever, you'll stay in my heart and I will love you!"

And only after Father Patrick's shaken his head at the Von Stannis Family Singers and taken a calming sip of tea does he finally unwrap his present. He unties the ribbon and makes sure to ease each piece of tape away from the paper so carefully I'm almost vibrating with impatience. As Jewel wonders who will save her soul Father Patrick opens the box and inside, nestled in dark blue tissue paper, is a stuffed seal. It was Dad's idea, I know it was. And it's perfect.

Father Patrick glances over at me. "It's a harbor seal, Father. You can tell by the spotted coat and the short, concave snout. They're true seals — no external ear flaps — and they — "

He raises his eyebrows at me and I realize he wasn't asking for scientific information. He probably never is, actually. "You mean, why a seal?" He nods, ever patient. "It's from the Song of Solomon." I take the pinniped and press it to his chest, reciting, "Set me as a seal upon your heart," then move it, "as a seal upon your arm — " He almost doubles over, he's laughing so hard.

I dart into the bedroom and retrieve my own stuffed pinniped. "This is Paxton Elephant Seal. Paxton, meet Father Patrick McKenna." I make Paxton wave a flipper at him.

Father Patrick catches his breath and waves back. "Was there a character on 'Star Trek' named Paxton?"

"No. He just looks like a Paxton, don't you think?"

He leans over and scrutinizes him. "I don't believe I have an opinion," he decides. Then he holds up his seal for my inspection. "What does my seal look like its name is?"

"Give it time, it'll come to you."

"Will it, now?" He sits back and looks down into his seal's furry face.

And I reflexively knock on air and sing along to the next song, "Knock knock knockin' on heaven's door." He spares me a questioning look as I continue pantomiming for the rest of the chorus. "Dad's Bob Dylan. And no matter what we're doing, homework or on the phone or washing dishes or whatever, we stop and knock."

It's when Steve Winwood wants us to wake him up on Judgment Day, and we're talking about Lorenza and the chauvinists at the café (with me encouraging Father Patrick to come up with a sermon that convinces the baristas of the error of their ways) that he starts absently stroking his seal's fur, at first just petting its neck but as he falls into a rhythm I know is incredibly soothing he runs his hand from its head to its hindflippers again and again.

Bingo. Oh, you wonderful spotted seal, you!

Father Patrick asks how I'm doing with the Bach mass and we talk about the two novels I loaned him (we're in perfect agreement that the author, between writing the first novel and the second, had somehow gone from an enthusiastic but straightforward novice to someone who could handle complex characterizations and multiple storylines), George Michael tells us we gotta have faith-a-faith-a-faith, and it's relaxed, easy, there's no weight on his shoulders at all.

Then "Like a Prayer" by Madonna comes on. Father Patrick asks, "Isn't this —?"

I cut him a warning look as I add it to the list. "What?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he assures me, looking so innocent he's clearly not. I'm trying really hard to stare him down when that mischievous glint shows itself. "I just thought that perhaps you're not Aretha because you're Madonna."

It really doesn't pay to be annoyed at a priest. He's just going to laugh at you anyway. I heave a put-upon sigh and then say through gritted teeth, because it's true, "Yes. I am Madonna." He grins, triumphant, and I roll my eyes and give in. Kind of. I turn Paxton to face me and sing to him, "When you call my name, it's like a little prayer," refusing to treat Father Patrick to any more patented Stannis dance moves. Although I do make Paxton bop to the beat.

Apparently, the camerlengo's harbor seal is too shy to join in; it stays nestled against him, safe from the lunatic woman crooning pop songs, as he continues to smooth its fur and give me that grin that says he's so amused by all of this he's about fit to bust. It's a relief when Madonna finally gives way to Cher, who believes in life after love.

Father Patrick helps himself to a handful of snacks — then freezes, mouth full, and frowns at me. I quickly try one and see nothing wrong. "Chicken-flavored crackers." It's only as I say it I realize that it's probably a bizarre concept. "Goes really well with spray cheese in a can," I admit.

He swallows, at least not afraid he's been poisoned. "Americans like them?"

"The Stannises do; can't speak for all Americans." And there goes one more thing that doesn't take Father Patrick back to his childhood. We're batting 1.000. I wonder if he'll even try the Cap'n Crunch now.

He refills his teacup and takes a gulp, I'm guessing to cleanse his palate, and then as an afterthought he holds the cup to his seal's muzzle and tilts it slightly for it to take a sip. Before I can go "awww!" at the cuteness of it all Father Patrick is giving me an incredulous look. "This is a popular song?"

I focus in on what's been playing in the background, and wonder which member of my family would even admit to owning the Mr. Mister cd that Leo got the song from. "It was a popular song. Kyrie eleison, where I'm going will you follow! Kyrie eleison on the highway in the light!"

Father Patrick, now thoroughly resigned to the vagaries of American Top 40 songs, sighs and takes the ribbon from the gift box and ties it around the harbor seal's neck. He considers the effect, straightens it a little. Then he says to it slowly, as if puzzled, "You look like…a Rosie."

"Rosie Harbor Seal," I pronounce with satisfaction. It's a fine name. "Hi, Rosie! I'm Miri Stannis, and this is Paxton Elephant Seal." Paxton again obediently waves a flipper. And Father Patrick makes Rosie wave hers. Awww!

Suddenly he asks me, "Does everyone in your family have seals, then?"

I tilt my head back in an attempt to remember all their names. "Mom's is…Gordon Monk Seal, Carolyn's is Joy Fur Seal, Leo's is…Samantha? Sabrina? Sarah Beth? …Harp Seal, and Dad has a sea lion, Salisbury, because he likes being an outlier."

"So it's a family tradition." I've seen that wondering look in his eyes before. It's the same as when he realized that I did, indeed, like him tons. Except now he's realizing a family half a world away feels the same way I do. "Thank you, for including me in your tradition. Thank you for Rosie."

"You're welcome, Father. We all know you'll give her a good home."

"That I will."

The next song starts and I breathe, "Thank you, Leo!" I explain, "It's my song, Father! Well, we call it 'Miri's Prayer.'" And because Father Patrick is family now, I stand and hold out my hands to him. "Whenever it plays we always dance to it."

He looks up at me with a surprisingly shy smile, leans over to place Rosie next to Paxton, and puts his hands in mine. Like Mom and Dad did with me and then I did with Carolyn and then Leo, I pull him towards me, lean away, twirl him around as I sing along with Danny Wilson.

"So when you find somebody to keep, think of me and celebrate, I made such a big mistake when I was Miri's prayer." When the chorus comes around again he's not only dancing with more assurance, he's singing along, too. Quick study, that camerlengo.

"What I wouldn't give to be when I was Miri's prayer." As the song ends I twirl Father Patrick a final time and he winds up with his back to me and wrapped in my arms. I tell myself in no uncertain terms that he's nothing but my hunky older brother — he's standing between my dad and me as we back up my mom singing "Chain of Fools." Right there. See him?

That's when he turns back around and pulls me into a warm hug, saying softly into my ear, "Thank you, Miri."

Out of all the hundred million times I've fantasized about being held by Father Patrick, not once did my throat tighten and not once did I have to blink back sudden tears. Not once was I the sudden emotional wreck I am now. I swallow hard and reply as lightly as I can, "You're welcome, Patrick Michael Stannis McKenna."

I feel his huff of laughter against my hair. "No 'Star Trek' name for me? 'Spock' isn't taken yet."

"Neither is 'Uhura,'" I remind him.

"That's true. Let me think on it."

"Miri's Prayer" is the last song on the Camerlengo Mix and the silence is surprisingly comfortable as we let go of each other and he gets ready to leave. He puts on his saturno and settles Rosie carefully into the crook of his arm and I slip the cd and the movies between the top of the bakery box and the string tied around it so he can carry the box with his other hand. I lightly stroke Rosie's head in goodbye.

Before Father Patrick heads downstairs he smiles at me and asks, "What do harbor seals eat?"

"Well, Paxton is incredibly partial to strange salty snacks, so I'm guessing Rosie likes chocolate."

He sighs in relief. "I think I can handle that." He winks at me — he winks at me! — and heads home.

I perch Paxton where he can stare me down and I carefully and deliberately straighten my desk – laptop here, pens and notebooks there, books there, there, and there – so I can start editing down my article. I'm skittery, with more than just caffeine and sugar and salt coursing through my system.

Something happened today, something shifted. I just wanted to help him, wanted to take his mind off his troubles, whatever they are — he's probably just worried about a parishioner, it's not as if his brain was stolen by aliens like Spock's was or he'd be acting more like a zombie and not looking so troubled but maybe he's Bette Davis in Dark Victory with a brain tumor that'll kill him within the year and — nah, he told me flat-out he wasn't Audrey Hepburn so he's probably not Bette Davis either and in any case he probably just heard something in the confessional because if a quarter or even one-eighth of the parishioners say whatever comes into their heads when they're in a confessional like I do I can see a priest being pretty disturbed by it all especially if he found out there was like a deep-cover mole at the Vatican and —

Paxton looks at me mournfully. What exactly was I supposed to be doing again? Right. I sit down at my desk. As I sift through the hardcopy pages I can feel the ghost of Father Patrick's arms around me. And it's not sexual in the least.

Because Camerlengo Patrick McKenna became an honorary Stannis today. And if that's what'll get him through whatever's bothering him, that's what I'm going to be. The sister who reminds him he's liked tons. Who makes him feel like he belongs.

FIN

Acknowledgements: Leo's Camerlengo Mix
"Living on a Prayer" by Bon Jovi on the album "Cross Road"
"Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin on the album "Led Zeppelin IV"
"Missionary Man" by the Eurythmics on the album "Greatest Hits"
"Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield on the album "Ultimate Collection: Dusty Springfield"
"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey on the album "Journey's Greatest Hits"
"I Say a Little Prayer" by Aretha Franklin on the album "Greatest Hits"
"Who Will Save Your Soul" by Jewel on the album "Atlantic Records: 50 Years"
"Knocking on Heaven's Door" by Bob Dylan on the album "Biograph"
"Wake Me Up on Judgment Day" by Steve Winwood on the album "Back in the High Life/Chronicles"
"Faith" by George Michael on the album "Faith"
"Like a Prayer" by Madonna on the album "Like a Prayer"
"Believe" by Cher on the album "Women & Songs"
"Kyrie" by Mr. Mister on the album "Billboard Top Hits - 1986"
"Mary's Prayer" by Danny Wilson on the album "Meet Danny Wilson"